Wherever I May Find Her
by Shimizu Hitomi
Summary: FE7. Three years after Nergal's defeat, Marquess Caelin falls genuinely ill, instigating a new set of political complications. Kent/Lyn blanket scenario. With a plot!
1. Prologue: Look to the Stars

**Disclaimer: I don't own Fire Emblem. I just like playing with the characters.**

**Summary:** FE7. Three years after Nergal's defeat, Marquess Caelin falls genuinely ill, instigating a new set of political complications. (Kent/Lyn blanket scenario. With a plot!)  
**Pairings:** Kent/Lyn, possible mentions of others  
**Rating: **T

**Notes:** LOL I'm supposed to be on hiatus, which is obviously the best time ever to get ideas. This has actually been in planning for uhh almost three years, but I never quite figured out how to piece everything together. Until now. Sooo, things you should know: 1.) "Wherever I May Find Her" refs a Simon and Garfunkel song. 2.) The chapter titles, however, are (mostly) loosely inspired by The Back Horn songs. 3.) This fic is kind of the evolved version of "The Spaces in Between", which was originally mostly a sounding board for my ideas and not a serious endeavor. Basically, I'm getting off my ass to flesh out an actual plot using some of the ideas I developed from Spaces, most of which never made it into written form anyway. Partly because I like the backstory I concocted for Kent too much. (FE has a serious lack of positive mother figures! They're all dead or otherwise missing, or die at some point, except, arguably, Eleanora.) 4.) This is multichapter. Complete notes will be posted at wariskind on LJ when the whole thing is done, not on a chapter-by-chapter basis. 5.) I'm REALLY supposed to be on hiatus.

Most importantly: 6.) this fic is nonlinear, i.e. it jumps around in time, i.e. it's a mystery more in the sense of "what happened?" rather than "whodunnit?" And I mean like really really jumps around in time. For no real reason other than the fact that I enjoy being evil.

Also, this is dedicated to Qieru and Manna, who have been hankering after this fic for quite a while. XD

* * *

Prologue: Look to the Stars

The night before her grandfather died, Lyn dreamed, once again, of the plains.

That first year in Caelin, she had dreamed so often that many mornings she woke expecting to smell rabbit meat stewing in the crisp air, hear the gentle murmur of her parents moving about the ger. Her fingers would reach for the thick, soft furs which they had all three of them huddled under for warmth in the long winter months, only to find white quilted blankets in place of furs, and wood and stone closing in all around her in the silent hours before dawn.

She had not cried. Those were happy memories, and happy memories should not, must not be stained by tears. Nor did she think the lady of the castle was supposed to weep for reasons no one else could understand, especially in front of the staring, ogling servants who passed in and out of her chambers each day. That much, at least, she knew. A warrior's grief, too, was confined to the circles of his clan, among the brothers who had lived and fought and died alongside him.

In the end, the dreams had faded, along with her memories. It was not that she wanted to forget, but she did. New memories replaced them, new words and new faces.

Perhaps it made it easier for her, to remember only that she was the granddaughter of Marquess Caelin, and not a child of the plains.

o-o-o

Long grasses tossing in the wind. The rich, earthy smell of loam filled her nostrils. She threw back her head and found that her hair was unbound, whipping back like a horse's mane. She laughed and ran forward, unthinking. There was someone she must meet, the wind told her. Someone she must find.

But the plains stretched on and on without end, and no matter how hard she ran, the sun stayed in the same position overhead. Tears of frustration welled in her eyes. She wiped them away fiercely with the back of her hand, and continued to run.

The sun set, and darkness spread across the land. She could not see any familiar landmarks. Where was east, where was west? Where was south, where was north? Fear struck her then, a childish terror she had not experienced since she had been three, and had wandered away from the safety of the ger, away from the encampment where her tribe had settled for the long winter. Like a little lamb wandered away from its herd.

"Ada?" she whispered into the sudden, eerie stillness. She crouched down, hugging her knees, hungry and weary and cold.

There was no answer.

"Ada?" she called out again, voice trembling. And yet still there was nothing, not even the sound of a howling pack in the distance.

The fear overcame her. She broke into heaving, soundless sobs, though no tears flowed down her face. Her chest felt strangely heavy.

She remembered, vaguely, the old tale of the great she-wolf laying herself down to die.

Only then, in the darkness, did she see the flicker of movement in the distance. She quieted down and waited, uncertain if she were hunter or hunted.

As the figure neared, she realized suddenly that it was human. And yet not human, for she could see no face in the darkness. Even then she knew already who it must be, and why he had come.

"Ada, oh Ada. Is it really you? I --" She could speak no further. Her father's strong arms encircled her in an embrace.

"My daughter, my Lyndis, my little filly. Why have you come to this place?"

"I am lost, Ada," she whispered, and clutched at him desperately, fearing that he would fade into shadow and mist once more. "I am lost, and cannot find the way."

"Shh, shh," he murmured, clucking at her in the way he had always used to soothe his horse, or to comfort her when she was upset. "There always comes a time when one loses their way."

"But what should I do?" she cried. "Everywhere I turn lies a trap or a false turn. Ada, I -- I'm so scared."

"Do not fear, my child. Father Sky and Mother Earth are with you, always. The spirits of the land are at your side. Listen for them, and they shall come."

"But I miss you," she said, quiet and quivering. "You, and Ama, and..."

"I know. I know. I have missed you too, my little filly... But the paths of Sky and Earth are filled with meetings and departures alike. And now we have come, once more, to the parting of the ways."

"Don't go," she choked. "Don't leave me."

He looked at her sadly. Sadly, she knew, though she could not see his face.

"Everyone must leave, sooner or later, Lyn." Already his voice was drifting away. "Have you forgotten? Look to the stars..."

The stars. In her fear and sorrow she had forgotten. She tilted her head to the night sky, gazing at that dark expanse embedded with glittering lights. Black. The color of charred grass. But the stars oriented her, sang to her her place in the universe. Front to the south, back to the north; left to the east, right to the west. And she at the center of the world.

The stars blurred into a mass of light. She collapsed onto the grass, and imagined that she was a wolf, howling her grief to the sky.

o-o-o

When the servants came to wake her with news of Lord Hausen's passing, her face was already stained with tears, though she could no longer remember why.


	2. Chapter One: Dreamflower

**Disclaimer applies**

**Notes:** I just realized the summary is a little misleading in terms of the timeline... OH WELL. :D (ALSO, STILL ON HIATUS)

* * *

Chapter One: Dreamflower

"Don't die," he said. The rain poured down, unheeding, streaking across his face.

"Don't die."

Thunder rumbled in the distance. He shook his head, as if in that simple act he could somehow deny the coming storm.

"Don't die," he said, clutching her body so tightly to himself that he might have been shocked at the impropriety of the situation, some other time, some other place.

He ran.

o-o-o

Autumn. A red flower unfurling.

A long, dark tunnel. Water, dank and musty, pooled beneath his feet. The silence seeped through his bones; he could hear nothing but his own breathing and echoing footfalls in the emptiness.

"I am dreaming," he said, just to hear the sound of his own voice, but there was no reply.

He felt naked in the darkness, unarmed, armorless, wearing nothing but the dirty rags of a beggar. A faint light glimmered at the edge of his vision, and the path stretched on and on before him.

For a brief moment Death whispered in his ear; it was not the first time, nor would it be the last. He did not hope: he knew.

So he walked.

o-o-o

"The grass is singing," she said, delight etched upon her face. He did not understand, but was content in her joy.

He watched her run. The sunlight washed out all the color in the world, save for the sky, bluer than blue. There was no one but the two of them and the wind. She paused suddenly, bending over a pale blossom. She asked him its name, but he did not know it. He did not know anything anymore.

He had been naive, perhaps. Always thinking himself the practical one, the responsible one, when in reality he had been utterly blind to what lay right before his eyes. He had been foolish to dream.

Even so, he could cherish these moments. These precious, rare moments. Freedom. Joy.

He watched her run, farther and farther away. The silence between them stretched until even her laughter faded into the wind.

_Now_, he thought.

But he could not.

So he stayed, standing there in the middle of the meadow like some forgotten scarecrow.

o-o-o

He sat huddled in the rundown shack, listening to the rain. He had never felt so alone. Not even in the middle of battle, soldiers dying all around him, blood and sweat staining his hands and face. All the failures, all the deaths from his twenty-odd years seemed to sum up to this single moment.

In his arms, she stirred, murmuring words he could not understand. Her clothes were plastered to her skin, skin that burned to the touch. He did not like to think of how much time had passed. Instead, he laid her gently onto the creaking pallet in the corner and went back outside.

He went down on his hands and knees, crawled through the mud, groping blindly for the key he had hidden nearby.

When he finally found it, he realized he was shaking.

o-o-o

The day they returned to Caelin, the three of them -- just Lyndis, Sain, and Kent himself now, after Mark and Rath had disappeared without warning, and Florina had departed with the Ostian entourage, and Wil with the Pheraens, and Raven and Lucius to who-knows-where -- were caught in a sudden summer shower.

Lyndis was taken by surprise. Kent could see the sheer wonder dancing in her eyes even as she leaped off her horse and stuck out her tongue, catching droplets of water in her mouth. The previous year had seen them riding under the banners of Lords Hector and Eliwood, and the year before had been an unusually dry one after the annual spring torrents, and so it was the first time she had experienced the notorious capriciousness of Lycian weather. Sain laughed at her antics and spouted some ridiculous compliment about her tongue, of all things. She reached out to smack him before hesitating, apparently remembering that such an action was unbefitting of a young noblewoman. Then Sain extended the compliment to her lips, and she smacked him anyway.

In Sacae, she told them, laughing, the summer months were the dry months, months of travel and movement as the clans followed their herds on established routes to fresher pastures and stabler water sources. Kent wondered, idly, perhaps habitually, of what dangers that yearly journey must pose. Wolves and other predators must be a risk year-round. But if a spring should suddenly dry out one year, or a river divert its course, would the tribes come into conflict? Or would they negotiate with each other, search for some compromise that benefited both parties?

He was suddenly aware of Lyndis standing before him, peering up at his face with a mischievous expression. She leaned forward and brushed aside the hair plastered on his forehead. Kent could hear, above the pounding of his heart, Sain whistling some obnoxious tune somewhere behind them (and if he remembered the lyrics to that tune correctly, he was really going to have to _throttle_ the older man after this).

But then she rocked back onto her heels, cocking her head to the side in the way she did when she wanted to know what he was thinking, and wouldn't take no for an answer.

So he told her. He regretted his words and his honesty as soon as he spoke, but after a brief, unreadable flash of emotion, her eyes brightened, and she began happily chattering away.

"Of course it depends on the tribes..." she said, and launched into a long and convoluted story-explanation of various inter-tribal relationships, the history of warfare on the plains, and elaborate ancient ceremonies of exchange and hospitality.

o-o-o

The first few weeks were a trying time for both Lady Lyndis and her new retainers. Kent and Sain and the others who had traveled with her and fought alongside her on their journey to Caelin had had time to grow used to her habits and personality, and some of her more unusual ways -- Kent, in fact, though he dared not admit it, found her quirks rather endearing. She startled and intrigued him, though her decisions often challenged all of his rationalizations, all of his deepest beliefs, everything he had been taught all his life. Still, she was a lady now, and heir presumptive to Lord Hausen, and the others, like Chancellor Reissmann, would not look so fondly upon her idiosyncrasies. They had given her some leeway at first, in recognition of her unique circumstances, but that would not last long. There were standards of comportment that must be adhered to now, which might not have mattered so much when she was traveling with her comrades -- her personal "legion", as Wil had put it and the rest of them had eventually accepted with varying degrees of reluctance and amusement.

Kent felt responsible. Sain, of course, would argue that Kent always felt responsible, indeed took _too_ much responsibility upon his shoulders, especially with all the extra duties thrust on him now that he had been named Knight Commander, but in this matter Kent refused to budge. Much as he felt a personal responsibility in tutoring Wil in the ways of court, so too did he feel a certain duty and obligation to aid Lady Lyndis in her difficult transition to an unfamiliar role. He would not admit that he felt, also, some guilt on his part: had he been more vigilant about explaining the expectations she would have to face, more active in teaching her about the facets of Lycian culture he had always taken for granted, perhaps her current troubles could have been eased, however slightly.

So he watched over her, when he could. He corrected her gently when she misspoke, or misstepped. He recognized the growing frustration in her eyes as the days passed, but also the growing stubbornness. She was determined to learn, to change -- for whose sake, he could not say -- and quiet pride mingled with uncertainty swept over him with the realization.

"Why?" she asked him once, anger and misery coiled about her in a thick, impenetrable fog. And he had hesitated, for he did not know.

So he told her, instead, a familiar old children's tale, about a great and fearsome dragon, and the hero who set off to defeat it, and his faithful, clever lover, who waited many long years for his return, and how she fought off her many suitors in his absence: with a word, with a gesture, with a glance.

He was overseeing the training of a handful of new recruits the next day when Lady Lyndis came to watch them, as she often did. He did not pay much mind to her arrival at first. But then, a sudden flicker of movement caught his eye, and he tensed and looked over as she approached. There was something wrong, he thought, though on closer inspection he could not see a thing out of place.

It was another moment before he realized what was wrong, or perhaps was not wrong after all: she walked with the reserved, demure step of a young, unmarried lady.

When their gazes met, she smiled -- a slight, studied curve of the mouth, and not the open, natural expression he had grown used to -- and inclined her head gracefully. He found that he could not look on.

As he turned back to his recruits, he wondered, for the first time since he had brought her back to Caelin, if he had not made a great and terrible mistake.

It was a thought he swiftly quashed. It brought up too many complications. Complications, he realized uneasily, that he was not yet ready to face.


	3. Chapter Two: beneath the World Tree

**Disclaimer applies**

**Notes:** I can't write poetry... (insert evil laughter?)

Forgive any typos (chapter title is deliberate). I'm running half-blind and with serious lack of sleep. XD

* * *

Chapter Two: beneath the World Tree

They returned to Caelin in the heart of summer. Her grandfather, who had recovered enough to start pottering around the castle again, rode out to receive them despite his healers' warnings. Lyn was gladder than words could express to see him; she had been terrified that she would never speak to him again, even after Hector's poor spy had confirmed his survival.

But there was little time for tearful reunions, this time around. Caelin had been rife with turmoil and unrest ever since Laus attacked; many had lost their homes and crops, nearly half of the knights who had been in the castle and not on patrol throughout the canton had been killed, and Lord Hausen was thought dead by all but a few who knew the truth. Chancellor Reissmann, who had served as steward in Lyn's absence, had barely been able to maintain stability throughout the past year.

There was much she owed the chancellor, Lyn thought, and told him as much as soon as she had the chance, utilizing the formal phrases of gratitude she had made sure to learn from Kent.

Chancellor Reissmann looked briefly at her with amusement and perhaps just the slightest hint of approval before replying, "My lady, there is no need for such formality. I merely acted upon my duty to Caelin, and to your grandfather. Besides, now that our Knight Commander and subcommander have returned, along with our heir --" Lyn noticed a slight emphasis on that last "-- I am sure the recovery of Caelin will be swift to come."

In truth, she had not yet been formally declared heir since Lundgren's death. It had mattered little her; she had had no desire to take the throne. And, after all, who now could challenge her claim? Only she and her grandfather remained, of the blood of the house of Caelin.

"I will do my best to live up to your expectations," said Lyn, and only just remembered not to swear on Father Sky and Mother Earth.

Chancellor Reissman inclined his head in response, and Lyn turned to leave.

"Ah, one more thing, milady."

"Yes?"

"You turn... seventeen this year, I believe?"

Lyn nodded, curious as to what her age had to do with anything.

"Your lord grandfather has expressed interest in holding a coming-of-age ceremony for you, now that you have returned."

"But..." she began, uncertain of how to phrase a response without seeming rude. In the end, she opted for honesty. "I have already come of age," she said, a question lingering in her tone.

"Ah," said Chancellor Reissman again, with an expression on his face Lyn could not quite place. "I have heard... that in Bern, Ilia, and Sacae, and in certain Lycian territories, fifteen marks the age of adulthood. In the greater part of Lycia, however -- Caelin included -- it is seventeen."

Lyn wondered, with some amusement, if _this_ was why Reissman had always treated her more like a silly child than Caelin's heir-to-be. (The thought was a relief, for she had always feared he found her somehow... lacking.) And if this had been one of the reasons behind Kent's initial hesitation -- but it was too embarrassing to dwell on the latter, with her confession and his reply still fresh on her mind. So she decided to set the thought aside and ask later.

"Well," she said, now wondering why he had come to ask her approval. "If that's the case, I don't see why not. As long as it's not some grand and complicated affair..." It wasn't just that she dreaded such a thing; she was fairly certain they could not afford it, when they were still in the midst of reconstruction.

"Of course not, milady. Just a banquet and a simple ceremony of acknowledgment. I will take care of all the details."

Lyn could not hold back her sigh of relief.

"Thank you, Chancellor," she said, and wandered off to find her grandfather.

o-o-o

Her mother had been an odd bird, or so Lyn had always thought. With her chestnut hair and her hesitant, accented speech, she had always seemed terribly out of place among the other women of the tribe, who moved and chattered with sureness of foot and quick, easy laughter.

"Maddi!" they would cry -- for they called her mother _maddi_, lark, in much the same way as they called her 'Lyn' instead of 'Lyndis'. "Do you need help with your mending today?" Or, "Would you like to come with us to the river to do the washing?"

And always her mother would smile, but shake her head quietly, _no_.

Lyn had been four when she first became aware of what a strange and solitary creature her mother was, when she first became conscious of the differences that set her mother apart from everyone else. She remembered asking her father about it -- for it was her father who had taught her the ways of the world and of their people, and how to ride and to hunt and wield the blade -- but could not remember, now, what he had told her in response. Whatever he had said, however, must have satisfied her, for Lyn had never again been troubled by those differences as she grew up.

And yet, when she learned of her true heritage, she was not surprised. Perhaps deep inside she had known all along, the way she had always known that she was Lyndis, and her mother was Madelyn, no matter what the others called them. The way her mother had insisted on teaching her to read and write, though those of the plains had no need for writing; and to speak the strange lilting language of Lycia, which only those who traveled often to Bulgar knew and used. The way her mother had sometimes, when she thought no one was watching, gazed beyond the mountains to the south, with a look of yearning on her face.

No, it was not surprise that struck her, but a slow, unsettling realization that grew stronger as the days passed: that though she had loved her mother, and loved her deeply, Lyn had never truly known her.

In her dreams, her mother was always there, gentle and kind and beautiful, murmuring soft words of comfort and assurance. But beyond that, Lyn's memories were a blank. What kind of a woman had she been? Why had she fled her homeland, to dwell in a strange and distant place? Lyn wondered, often, if Madelyn had felt much the same as she herself did, living now in Caelin, so far away from the plains of her birth. At least Lyn had her friends here: Wil and Florina, and even Kent and Sain. But her mother had had no one but her father.

Her mother had been a true lady; that much at least she knew. She could hear it in the way her grandfather and Chancellor Reissmann spoke of her, see it in the way they sometimes looked at her as if seeing someone else, the way the marquess of Araphen had looked at her, but without the disgust.

Her mother had been a true lady, and she was her mother's daughter. And so Lyn knew that she, too, could become a proper lady if she only tried.

She must, for the sake of her grandfather, her only remaining family.

_I will learn to love this land, because my mother loved it._

_I will learn to love this land, as she learned to love the plains._

o-o-o

The banquet, as it turned out, was a horrible affair anyway. Her gown was itchy and got in the way of everything, and her hair had been braided and pinned up so tightly she was convinced she was going to go bald. And she was so nervous she couldn't even enjoy the good food the cooks had come up with (she was surprised, as food in the castle had not been much better than the fare they had been subjected on the march with Eliwood and Hector, if not worse -- Eliwood had at least had that funny looking squire with quite the talent for cooking).

Above all, she was painfully _bored_.

Her grandfather, or maybe the chancellor, had invited all of the lesser nobles and landowners of Caelin. She had been seated at the highest table with the most important of them, in the place of honor, and forced to endure all the staring and inane snippets of conversation that drifted her way. Not to mention the endless hollow compliments and well wishes. One would have thought that constant proximity to Sain for more than a year would have inured her to such things, but the truth was, Sain was more entertaining by far. Once she had gotten used to him enough to realize that she ought never to take him seriously, at least.

She was, she suspected, supposed to take these well wishes seriously, however.

What she would much rather be doing, she decided, was talking to Kent. And perhaps asking about who all of these people were, and which ones were worth remembering (or alternatively, which ones she _had_ to remember), or teasing him about how handsome he looked in his dress attire. It would have to wait, however. As Knight Commander, Kent was in charge of securing the castle and the grounds while all these guests walked around the place. It was for their safety as well as hers, he had assured her, and she had been tempted to ask him if they thought she would suddenly go into a rampage and kill all of the guests in a fit of irritation. But she hadn't, because she knew that wasn't what he'd meant, and she didn't think he would find it as funny as she did. He had been tired, lately. The military was in need of major restructuring, he'd told her, now that they had lost nearly half their forces. But most of the knights were adverse to change.

So Lyn forced herself to think of something other than Kent, and watched the local entertainers her grandfather had hired sing and juggle and prance around the hall. Most of the other lords and ladies were chuckling at their antics, so Lyn faked a look of bland amusement instead of the yawn that threatened to creep onto her face. Meanwhile, she began to look around the rest of the hall, studying the faces of those who had come.

One particular face caught her eye. She had always had a good eye for faces, and something about that face struck her as familiar, though she could not say what. Its owner was a pleasant young man -- younger than Kent, she guessed, but older than herself. He sat at an inconspicuous table in the corner, along with several other lower-ranking nobles. His hair was a curious shade, dark with a hint of sky or sea, much like her own. He was smiling at something someone had said, but his eyes were reserved and gave away nothing.

For some time the mystery of what the young man had found so amusing occupied her. But then, before she knew it, the banquet had ended, and the nobles were either departing to their own holds or being escorted to the guest chambers. Lyn wondered if she had accidentally missed the simple ceremony Chancellor Reissmann had mentioned. But perhaps the ceremony would be held later, in private, like the coming-of-age ceremonies she remembered on the plains.

She began to search, instinctively, for Kent.

"Excuse me. Lady Lyndis?"

An unfamiliar man's voice. She whirled around, startled, almost reaching for her sword before remembering that she had left it in her room, because no lady in her right mind would be caught wearing a sword to her own coming-of-age. (Chancellor Reissmann hadn't actually said that, but the voice of warning in her head when she'd been preparing for the banquet earlier was definitely his.)

It was the young man she had taken notice of earlier, and for a brief moment of panic she worried that he had caught her staring and taken insult. But that was clearly not the case, as he continued to speak.

"I don't believe we have met before. May I introduce myself? My name is Torsten."

"Lord Torsten," said Lyn, somewhat bewildered. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Just Torsten, milady. And yes, in fact. I know it is presumptuous of me, but I have a favor to ask of you."

"What --" she began, when she noticed Kent heading towards them with an expression she recognized as relief on his face. She grinned. "Kent! Have you finished with your duties so soon?"

Kent nodded, a small smile gracing his features. But then he stiffened, noticing that they had company. "I have, milady," he replied in a cool, neutral tone.

"And who might this be?" queried Torsten, and Lyn was thankful that he seemed more amused than insulted by her obvious distraction.

"My apologies. This is Kent, Knight Commander of Caelin," she said. "Kent, this is L -- um, Torsten."

She turned to Kent, expecting bewilderment to match her own, only to find that his mask of courtesy had dropped to reveal a startling, livid fury.

"You -- you're --"

"Kent?"

At that he seemed to remember himself, and took a deep breath. When he spoke again, his mask was back in place, but there was an underlying edge to his voice. "Lord Lundgren's son. A pleasure."

Lyn's heart skipped a beat, and this time she really did reach for a nonexistent sword. "You!"

The man held up his hands in a placating gesture, a wry, lopsided grin plastered on his face. "Yes, my father was Lord Lundgren. I had no intention of hiding this from you, my lady. Though I had hoped to impart the truth to you in a more -- delicate manner."

She gritted her teeth. "What do you want?"

The man glanced at Kent.

"Whatever you have to say to me, you can say in front of him."

Torsten sighed. "Very well. As you may know, my lady, my dear mother and I were stripped of title and lands after my late father's treachery."

She had not known. Had the chancellor told her? Had it simply slipped her mind?

"And you want them back."

"No. Of course not. My father did a foolish thing, and now we must bear the consequences. No, my lady Lyndis. My request is of a far simpler nature. I ask only to be given a position in court, no matter how small -- I wish to make amends for my father's mistakes, and to be given a chance to prove my loyalty: to Caelin, to your grandfather, and to you."

o-o-o

Nils, Lyn had noticed, often wandered off in the evenings to be by himself. Even Ninian did not know where he went, but he always returned by dawn, so no one questioned his disappearances. He was far from the only member of their little troupe with unusual habits, after all.

Lyn could understand it -- that desire to be alone, to be apart from all others. Perhaps in the past she would not have, for to be alone on the plains meant almost certain death, even at the best of times. But half a year of solitude had taught her that survival was possible, had drained that old fear from her and left in its place something else entirely.

Still, they were now in Bern, in dangerous territory. _Bandit_ territory. And a young boy of such unusual coloring was bound to attract notice.

So one evening, when Kent and Sain were distracted by something or other, and Eliwood and Hector were having a fascinating but utterly incomprehensible discussion or argument of some sort, and Mark had turned in early for the night, she followed him.

It was a more difficult endeavor than she had imagined it would be. Nils moved with surprising swiftness, darting deeper and deeper into the forest near their encampment. The trees were tall and dense. From time to time she caught glimpses of the moon, but the forest canopy was too thick for her to see the stars. She felt a distinct, rising sense of unease as she maneuvered through the shadow and the darkness. It was the same discomfort she had felt the first time she stepped into the woods near Castle Caelin, and realized that the wind tangled and snarled in the branches of the trees.

In the end, she even lost sight of Nils. But after a brief moment of panic, the faint sound of music guided her, and at last, she stumbled upon a small, moonlit clearing.

There in the center stood Nils, singing, his voice high and clear, like a bell.

"When I was young and foolish still, I swore an oath to my true liege..."

Lyn stilled, drawn by the melancholy of his song. But after a few more lines he broke off and turned, as if he had been aware of her presence all along.

"I was worried," she said, embarrassed that she had been caught.

Nils smiled, and she relaxed. "I appreciate your concern, Lady Lyndis."

Curiosity overpowered her embarrassment then, and she blurted out, "What was that song? Surely that wasn't all of it?"

The boy inclined his head. "It was a popular melody long ago, but the words were different then." His strange red eyes took on a wild, distant cast, and for a moment Lyn forgot that he was only a child, a child who had, just weeks ago, been horsing around with Hector like any normal boy his age.

"I've heard it only once recently, though," he continued quietly. "Last year, in a small inn on the Caelin-Tania border. It's a very long song. I'm afraid I didn't catch all the verses." At that he looked rather sheepish, and Lyn could not resist the urge to grin and ruffle his hair.

"That's all right," she said. "Come on, let's go. Everyone must be looking for us by now!"

He took her hand, and they went back.

o-o-o

A few days later, they were sitting by the campfire when she found herself humming snatches of the song. At her side, Kent started, and stared at her.

She turned, intrigued. "You know this song, Kent?"

"I do," he said. "I am surprised that you are familiar with it, milady."

"What is it?" she asked eagerly. "I've only heard a few lines of it."

"Telfer's Lament. He was one of Roland's most loyal vassals. After Olivier, Telfer was the one man Roland trusted more than everyone else. The three of them fought side by side all through the Scouring. But..."

"But?" She had some idea, now. Perhaps all those history lessons with Chancellor Reissmann had paid off after all. But Kent's explanations were usually more interesting. (She could usually coax him into including the bloody details.)

"In the end -- after the war -- they had a falling-out. Eleven years after the end of the Scouring, Olivier led a rebellion against Roland, and Telfer sided with Olivier."

She frowned, not having expected that last. "But why? Weren't they friends? How could they betray him like that?"

But Kent only shook his head. "Telfer seemed to regret it, in the end. They say he composed this lament the night before their final battle. It became popular among the commonfolk after the Sundering of Roland's legacy. But eventually Roland's four children banned the song as treason from all their lands. It was the only time all four ever agreed on the same thing. Not many people still know the song."

"But you do." She hesitated, suddenly uncertain why she felt so desperate to hear it in its entirety, and equally uncertain of her right to know. "Can you sing it for me?"

It was a long time before he replied, and his face seemed so distant that she regretted she had ever asked.

"Sain would do it better justice," he said slowly. "But I do not think he knows it."

"If you don't want to --"

He shook his head again. "I'll sing it," he said, slipping back unconsciously into the lilting cadence -- so different from Hector and the Ostians' clipped accent -- that Lyn had heard the Pheraens and her Caelin-born comrades use only among themselves. She almost did not notice when Kent began, half-singing, half-chanting in a low tone:

"'Until the day this land knows peace  
These weary bones shall know no rest!'  
Such were the words that stirred my heart  
That distant, glorious morn.

But now I am grown old and gray  
The kingdom lies in ruins, torn  
And once more have I ta'en up arms  
Today I ride to battle, and to death."

He stopped abruptly, perhaps conscious of the stares they had attracted. "I have forgotten the rest."

Lyn bowed her head, subdued. "What happened? To Telfer, in the end?"

"He died at Roland's hand in that final battle. Olivier was captured and executed, but Telfer... At his dying request, he was buried under a great ash tree, with his head facing west."

Though she could sense his growing reluctance, she still had one last question. "Who taught you the song? Your father?"

"No," he said. "My mother."

o-o-o

She found Sain dashing out a hasty letter in the stables. When she approached, he looked up with a guilty start, but upon seeing her, all humor fled from his face.

"Any news yet, Commander?" she asked quietly, schooling her own face into a blank slate, the way her father always had when meeting strangers or adversaries.

Sain did not bother with any such effort. "No, milady," he said, and she could hear the emotions simmering beneath his barely controlled tone.

Her disappointment must have leaked through then, somehow, for his eyes softened. "Rest assured, Lady Lyndis, you will be the first to know, when..."

She blinked, bit her lip. "Thank you... Sain."

When she stepped outside again, the pale light stung her eyes. She collapsed beneath the shade of a nearby tree and stared at the fallen leaves scattered about the ground.

After a while, she stood and headed back to her chambers.


	4. Chapter Three: Winterlight

**Disclaimer applies**

**Notes:** Barring any brainfarts on my end, there should be about three chapters left plus an epilogue. Does this mean we're now at the halfway point? Does this mean LONGER CHAPTERS?

Hmmm. I wonder.

* * *

Chapter Three: Winterlight

"Did you know?" she asked in the shadow of the parapets, during one of their rare moments of privacy.

It had been two days since the coming-of-age banquet (Kent, at least, had found it a rather unnecessary affair: he had not thought of her as a girl since the day she first drew the Mani Katti from its sheath, and had almost been surprised that he could pinpoint the date so precisely), but he knew instantly to what she referred. He was, in fact, surprised she had not brought it up sooner, and had barely resisted mentioning the topic first himself, realizing that she needed time to reflect on her own.

"No," he said. "Well, I was aware that Lundgren had a son, but I had thought him..."

"Thought him what? Dead?"

"He and his mother have always preferred to keep a low profile. It's well known that relations between Lundgren and his wife were quite cold. Most people assumed that he had gotten the marriage annulled years ago."

Lyndis chewed her bottom lip. She was playing unconsciously with the tip of her ponytail, a sign that she was deep in thought. Kent recalled that she had told him once about attitudes towards marriage on the plains. There, though marriages were often arranged from early childhood, a wedded woman was free to return to her father and her clan should her husband not treat her with respect, and equally free to wed another after her previous bonds were dissolved. There was none of the stigma against remarriage that existed in Bern and most of Lycia, none of deeply rooted shame associated with annulled joinings. It would be difficult for her to understand the factors that had motivated Torsten and Lady Gudrun to retire into hiding, and what urgency or necessity must have moved them to return now.

"Do you think he was telling the truth?" she said at last.

"About the stripping of his title and lands? Yes. I checked with the chancellor, and he confirmed that he had taken the opportunity to do so as soon as your grandfather was well enough to consult."

"And about his request?"

Kent hesitated. "My lady," he began, then corrected himself instinctively, "Lyndis. In Lycia, inheritance is generally traced through the male line. That is, in most cantons, Lundgren would have been considered heir presumptive until your mother gave birth to a son. _If_ she gave birth to a son. Lord Hausen, however, when he received word of Lady Madelyn's survival, cared not whether her child was male or female. He intended to let rule pass to her blood, and in truth it would not have been an unprecedented move. But if Lord Torsten had chosen to -- if he chooses to contest your claim on the throne even now, he is well within his rights to do so. Indeed, had it not been for Lundgren's crimes against your grandfather, and Lord Hausen's own wish, he might very well have the better claim."

This too was a subject they had touched upon, albeit in the earlier days of their acquaintance, when the laws of the land were still unfamiliar to her. With the exception of the stationary clans, Sacaen tribes allowed chiefs to choose their own successors. Of course, they usually chose their own son, or a brother, whether pledged or blood, or a nephew, though rare exceptions like the Hero Hanon won the position through challenging and defeating the former chief in three tests of skill: archery, wrestling, and horsemanship. The system had seemed strange to Kent when Lyndis first explained it to him, but he had to admit there was a certain straightforward simplicity to it which the convoluted politics of Lycian inheritance lacked.

"I've tried to make sense of it," she said, laughing then. "But... if what you're saying is true, that means he isn't after the throne, right?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "It is true that if he wanted it, he would have acted before now." He did not tell her that he had, just the previous night, awoken from a nightmare in which they had returned to Caelin only to find their charade revealed and Lord Hausen overthrown in a coup during their year-long absence. Even now the memory of it struck him with a sudden, irrational fear. "If he wishes to try anything now, he would find it very difficult. As it stands, he could even be tried in his father's place for the crimes committed against you and your grandfather. Not to mention, the first Lady Lyndis -- your grandmother -- was dearly loved by the people. I think, perhaps, that they see something of her in you, now. It would not be easy to wrest their support from you."

Lyndis frowned, then poked his chest playfully. "But you're still worried, aren't you."

"Yes," he admitted.

She gazed at him intently, as if she could divine the answers from his face. Then she sighed.

"I was thinking I'd take him on as a tutor. I certainly need one, and it's a harmless enough position, isn't it? I can't always be relying on you and Chancellor Reissmann..."

Her suggestion should have surprised him, and yet it did not. "The other nobles may not see such a position to be as harmless as you think. They will accuse him of having undue access to and influence upon you."

"I know. But I can't think of anything better... If I could refuse him, I would."

So she had noticed, after all, that for all Torsten's pretensions toward desiring a private conversation with her, he had actually chosen to accost her in a relatively public venue. Kent was almost certain that it had been a deliberate choice, and not an unconscious one: though in all probability no one else had overheard the contents of their exchange, there had been a few lingering guests who had certainly witnessed the encounter. And that in itself was potential for danger, for though Kent had been unable to recognize the man on sight alone, he was sure there were others who remembered, who were capable of piecing together the truth, and who would wonder.

"Then again," she said now, "my father used to say that it was wise to keep potential enemies close at hand. And since Torsten's already made the first move, we need to do something to take back control of the situation. With both him and the nobles, I suppose."

That, he knew, she had learned from Mark.

And he knew too, intellectuallly, that she was right -- he himself had spent the past two days methodically coming up with all possible alternatives and rejecting them in turn -- though she had probably reached her conclusions in a far less tortuous route than he had. They were conclusions he was still reluctant to accept.

"Just be careful, Lyndis," he said quietly.

"Of course," she murmured, then added with a cheerful grin, "Well, everyone knows that I have strange beliefs since I grew up on the plains. Let's just let them think this is another case of my upbringing. No matter what insults his father may have paid me, he is still of my blood, and we of the plains do not turn away our own blood without good reason!"

He could not help it: his lips quirked into a smile. "I also thought the people of the plains were open and honest."

Her grin grew wider. "I am being honest! They just don't need to know the _entire_ truth, right?"

He wondered if she had learned _that_ from Matthew, and felt his mood lighten considerably for the first time since the banquet had ended.

o-o-o

The village was as small and quiet as he remembered it. To his surprise and relief, no one paid him much heed as he passed through the dusty lanes. Perhaps his movements exuded a familiarity no true stranger would have had; perhaps no one noticed simply because it was harvest season, the busiest time of the year. Or perhaps they did notice him, but simply chose not to show it.

A sudden wind chilled him to the bone, and for the first time he became painfully aware of winter's approach, a stark reminder of the urgency of his situation. For a fleeting moment he took gladness in the fact that even Sain knew nothing, would suspect nothing. Despite all their years of fighting alongside each other -- years, indeed, of friendship and camaraderie -- they had spoken little about their respective pasts.

That simple fact would buy him time. Time that he direly needed.

The first person he approached was an elderly man whose face he could not quite place. The old man looked at him with suspicion in his gaze, but when Kent dropped into the gentle rhythm of the local dialect, his expression cleared.

"Lookin' for Ol' Red, ah? This time o' day, the missus should be in her garden. Down o'er thataways."

Kent nodded his thanks and moved on. A trio of children playing in the streets turned to watch him, then burst into squeals and giggles. A stray cow lumbered into his path, followed by a disheveled young man who bowed and apologized profusely when Kent caught hold of its halter. On the ground ahead, a curling golden leaf, perfectly shaped and shimmering with traces of rain, drew his eye. He bent and picked it up, but on closer examination, it was riddled with small holes. He let it fall from his hand.

In the end, he found her, as expected, in her garden, half-singing, half-humming an old familiar song.

"A dream we had, a dream we shared, beneath those great vast branches, spread against the deep'ning sky..."

A clenching pain seared through his chest, and was gone. He stepped up behind her. "Mother."

She stood and turned, and if she was surprised to see him, she did not show it. Kent was momentarily taken back aback by the traces of gray in her hair, and the faint creases wrinkling about her dark merry eyes, eyes so like his own.

"Why, come back to visit your poor ol' mama after all these years?" Listening to the rise and fall of her intonation, one would never know she had been brought up speaking the standard Lycian of the western territories that any proper lord or lady was taught from birth. "Got yourself inna spot o' trouble again, ah?"

When he did not respond, her teasing smile thinned to a slight frown.

"Come along in, now," she said, accent muted now. "Journey long, warm hearth awaits."

Kent recognized the line as the distorted regional form of a popular welcoming phrase, reflected on how strange it was, hearing it directed at him in what had once been his own home. But the moment passed, as the others had before it, and he stepped over the threshold into the memories of his childhood.

His mother listened quietly in a chair across from him as words spilled from his mouth and tumbled over each other like a rushing stream. When he finished, she shook her head and handed him a mug of warm cider.

"You speak of honor and duty and responsibility," she said, with an air of quiet irony, "like a true hero."

"I am no hero," he said. "A hero is one who protects, one who defends. I failed. Not just once, not just twice --"

"M'boy, what do you think makes a hero?"

"Courage," he said, thinking of Lord Hector. "Conviction," he said, thinking of Lord Eliwood. And at last, thinking of the quiet, unassuming man who had directed them all to victory, "Sacrifice and humility."

His mother snorted. "Spoken like a true man. Sacrifice and humility: what woman knows not those? And yet we are no heroes."

"But..." he began, then hesitated, thinking of Lyndis. "Are not Hanon and Elimine counted among the eight heroes of legend?"

"Few of us will ever be Hanon or Elimine, or even clever Bradamant. The paths that they chose are closed to us. For us there are only the secret paths, the forgotten paths, the paths that go under and around and in between." She spoke without bitterness and without hesitation, and he found that he could not respond.

"My son," she said softly then. "You need'na be a hero. Have I told you the story of the Lady of Tuscana, who bent her knee and her proud neck to save her own brother's life?"

Kent shook his head, dread settling in the pit of his stomach. And when his mother spoke again, it was in the voice of a true highborn noblewoman of Lycia.

"In the years after Princess Valeria of Etruria wed Lord Naimon of Ostia, the territory of Tuscana came to resent the growing power of neighboring Thria. The leader of Tuscana at the time was the young warlord Gerard, who was known for his temper as well as his courage and fierceness in battle. He led a series of attacks against Thria, but in the end was defeated and captured, leaving his older sister as ruler in his place.

"Now cunning old Marquess Thria led a counterattack against Tuscana. Lord Gerard's sister, whose name has been lost to the ages, held out for some time with the remnants of their army: those who had not ridden to war with her brother, and those who had survived the final rout and evaded capture by the enemy. But in the end, they were forced to retreat to their mountain stronghold.

"The men of Tuscana are proud creatures, then even as now, and so even then they would not surrender, nor even consider that possibility. Among Lord Gerard's advisers had been many intelligent and clever men; chief among them was the Lady's own husband. Those advisers who had not yet died in the conflict knew that Marquess Thria would not kill their lord, but had instead kept him alive as a valuable hostage. They knew, too, however, that this would not last; when Thria realized that they and their lord would rather face death than admit defeat, Gerard's fate would be determined. And so they devised a risky plan to send a small contingent of warriors to rescue him and conduct a surprise ambush from behind, thus encircling the Thrian forces. It was a risky plan indeed, but not a foolish one: Their mountain stronghold was protected naturally by the landscape: it would be near impossible to penetrate, even for the most skilled of generals and tacticians. And at warfare there were none better than the men of the mountains.

"All this the Lady of Tuscana knew. But while on the march, she had seen how her people suffered through the years of siege and war. The Thrians had burned as they came, in retaliation for the plundering of their own lands by Lord Gerard. She saw then that even if the advisers' plan succeeded, the war would drag on for years and years to come, only for them to be destroyed utterly in the end by Ostia, who had close ties with Thria.

"The night before the plan was to commence, the Lady of Tuscana prepared a lavish banquet, to which she invited all the remaining generals and advisers. To wish them luck in their venture, she said, but what none of them realized was that she had poisoned the food and drink. And when all the men and the servants had collapsed dead or dying in the hall, she flung open the gates of the keep and rode alone to the enemy camp. There she demanded to meet at once with Marquess Thria.

"Marquess Thria, intrigued by the reports of the arrival of his enemy's sister, came immediately. As soon as he arrived, the Lady threw herself at his feet, weeping.

"'I beg you, great lord. Please spare my brother!' she cried. 'He is young and headstrong and foolish, and thought only of glory and fame. I am only a woman, but I have seen your true strength and power, and know it is folly to have opposed you. Perhaps it is because of my woman's heart, but I have no desire to see this violence and bloodshed continued. And yet I love my brother dearly. He is all I have left. Little as he may deserve it, I cannot help but beg for mercy from you, my lord, whose wisdom and justice is praised all across the land.'

"'So you have come to surrender?" said the marquess.

"'I have,' replied she, tears streaming down her face. 'If only you promise to release my brother unharmed.'

"Naturally, the marquess was incredulous. 'And you think I would agree to such a preposterous demand? Your brother, before his defeat, was the biggest thorn in my side for many a year. With him gone, your keep shall certainly fall within the year. If I release him now, who is to say he shall not raise war against me once more? I have no need of your surrender!'

"'We would not lose so easily,' she said. 'Your men have little experience fighting here, while our men know all the nooks and crannies of the land. They understand the caprices of the mountains. Indeed perhaps you would defeat us in the end, but not without great loss to your own side. How many years have we now been at war? How many years since you saw your homes? If I surrender now, how many the lives and resources that would be spared! My dear little brother has been your prisoner these two years, and well do I know him: headstrong though he is, his will is easily cowed. Though he may put on a defiant facade, his spirit by now has surely been crushed. You need not fear him once he is released. I desire only to see him alive once more! Please, my lord. I beg you. Have mercy on my poor brother.'

"'If you will come to bed with me,' said Marquess Thria, who had been wed near twenty years already.

"And what could she do but agree? Then Marquess Thria summoned Lord Gerard and forced him to watch as he fucked his sister on the spot."

Kent winced. His mother continued speaking without a pause, her voice as cool as ice and hard as stone.

"Gerard was released the very next morning, and returned to his people only to find his most trusted generals and advisers dead. And so what could he do but surrender?

"Thus did Tuscana fall under Thrian rule, and not until Gerard's son Emeric took up arms did they regain their independence once more. To this day the Lady's memory is spat upon. They call her coward, histrionic, weak-willed woman, and curse her blood as traitor's blood."

He shook his head again, buried his face in his hands.

His mother reached over and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was not a comforting gesture. "What is more important, son: a man's life or his honor?"

"But of what value is a life lived without honor?" he asked, and was surprised at the desperation creeping into his voice. "What worth is life gained at the cost of others?"

"Exactly," his mother whispered. Then she stood, walked over to the small chest in the corner where she kept all of her most personal and treasured belongings. When she returned to her seat, she held in her hands a dried flower that must have been kept pressed between a book. Its petals were still as vibrant and red as if it were freshly plucked.

"A rare flower from the plains," she said. "I hear the Etrurians call them peonies."

Kent watched her, confused by her sudden change of topic.

"From Madelyn -- Lady Madelyn, I should say," she explained. "She sent me the seeds, before she -- passed away. It was the first time I'd received word from her in sixteen years. Did'na blame her, o' course. How could I? How ever could I blame her? Planted them soon as I could, but nary a bloom 'til last spring. I think you should have it."

He opened his mouth to protest, but upon seeing the look in her eyes, accepted the flower quietly, twirling it round and around between his fingers.

Despite himself, and the unsettling feeling that was equal parts resentment and resignation, a plan began to form in his head.

"I'd better leave," he said at last, struggling to keep from saying anything more. "Afore the soldiers come a-lookin'."

His mother smiled fondly at him. "Silly child, ah! Therefore did you come? You know I can take care o' myself."

He bowed his head. She clasped his hands in hers and lowered her voice. "Oh, Kent, m'boy. Just remember this: these paths that we take can only be tread alone."

"Thank you. I'm sorry, mama," he whispered in response, and heart set, stood to leave.

But at the door he hesitated. "Why did Lady Madelyn flee to the plains?"

It was a question he had never before dared ask, a topic he had never dared broach.

"Madelyn... Dear, sweet Madelyn." His mother's eyes shuttered. But in the end, she shook her head. "That, I think, is a question better answered by her daughter."

o-o-o

She fought like no one he had seen before.

He had been witness to many styles of swordplay throughout his career as a knight. There was the famed Pheraen style, with its fancy footwork and elegant flourishes, which combined the subtle artifice utilized by most Etrurian schools as well as the disciplined aggressiveness of the Bernese school. The Ostians, despite claiming direct descent from Hero Roland, preferred the lance and spear, drawing their shortswords only as a last resort. Then there were the two Ilian styles, one developed for the pegasus knights and one for the men's brigade, both of which emphasized mobility and precision -- allowing a second chance for any enemy to strike back was discouraged, given the costs of armor and weapon upkeep and the general shortage of supplies and equipment in the north. Tanian swordsmanship, meanwhile, resembled that of the Ilian men's brigade. Tania's light cavalry was renowned -- as were their horses, which were bred from a mix of Sacaen and Etrurian stock, and even rumored to possess a strain of pegasus blood -- their skills had been honed for maximum effectiveness from horseback. And of course, there were the bandits and common outlaws who swung their blades about with no formal training whatsoever, and the arena gladiators whose personal styles were often adapted from a mix of several.

In Caelin, knights were taught to wield, both mounted and on foot, all three of the major weapon types: first the sword, then the lance, and at last the axe. Theirs was a balanced style, deceptively simple patterns of thrust and slash and parry that minimized their movements, conserved their energy as much as possible. As Lord Wallace and General Eagler had drilled into their heads time and time again, it was not skill, but stamina that determined who lived and who died on the battlefield. He who tired first was the loser. The issue was made all the more important by the fact that Caelin was not possessed of a large military force, unlike its more imposing neighbors. Each individual must therefore fight with the might and strength of ten. When placed in highly trained units of three -- one to shield, one to disable, one to kill -- those individuals could then transform into a force equaling fifty of the enemy's.

Kent had never expected that he would one day face them himself: men he had trained and lived alongside for more than half his life, moves and tactics he could read like the back of his hand. He wondered, sometimes, how Sain must feel -- for Sain had been the one who joked and laughed with the others, listened to their woes and complaints, went into town with them to drink the night away. But Kent had never been able to understand the other man and what he thought or felt at any given moment, and sometimes, he thought, perhaps he understood himself even less.

He had never thought he would someday witness an example of Sacaen swordplay.

Indeed he had always been taught that the men of Sacae rarely wielded blades, that they preferred to ambush from a distance with their bows and arrows to weaken the enemy before sending in a small, swift attack force to pick off the remaining survivors. Quick, effective, and not entirely honorable, Kent had always thought, though he knew the men of the borderlands had developed similar techniques in order to counter the frequent raids from the plains.

But now he had seen Lady Lyndis fight. And Mark, her tactician companion, had been employing much the same methods against their enemies, who were many where they were few. Despite himself, Kent could not help but admire the simple, straightforward elegance through which they obtained their victories, even with all odds against them: scatter the enemy from afar. Sow confusion among their ranks. Strike down the unprotected offense; finish off the shielders left behind.

And Lady Lyndis's swordplay was a thing to behold.

He did not quite have the words to describe it, to explain the feelings that rushed through him as he watched her weaving through the enemy ranks, blood spraying in her wake. There was worry for his charge, certainly, but there was admiration as well. She grasped her sword in a position he might have deemed awkward in any other hands, but seemed only natural in hers -- more like an extension of her very body than a weapon. To say that she _danced_ seemed too crude, too inadequate. She bent and swayed like a blade of grass in the wind, untouched by enemy steel, a whirlwind of constant movement. Unwasted movement, he had begun to realize after only their second battle together, though to most eyes, trained or untrained, it must seem haphazard, drunken, nonsensical. But in truth her every motion was fluid and precise, lending her cuts power and deadliness in spite of her slight frame.

It was beautiful, and it was dangerous, and even more dangerous about her, he soon came to realize, was that she could make a man forget. Forget the gruesome violence inherent in her actions, the vague familiarity of the faces of those screaming as they were cut down and trampled underfoot, bodies crushed and broken, lives bleeding into the earth. The quiet finality of death and the feelings of guilt and doubt that lingered long afterwards, in a world turned tospy turvy, devoid of rules or sense or structure.

In all his life, he had only ever met two others with that same terrifying charisma. One was Lord Wallace. The other, a long-dead Ilian mercenary he had once met as a child, when the man had passed through the canton en route to the lands of his employer.

It was because he had known them that he recognized the truth now.

She was a woman who could inspire men to lay down their lives willingly for her, abandoning all rationality, turning their back on everything they knew, or thought they knew. They would follow her into death, into the unknown, based on little more but faith, and perhaps something else that he could not quite name.

And that, perhaps, was the most dangerous of all.

o-o-o

That first winter after their return, there came news of violent bandit raids near the southern border. Santaruz had been left in a disarray after Lord Helman's murder. Helman had been childless in his old age, and had neither seen fit to adopt an heir nor to name one before his death, and now there were no suitable canditates available to take his place. In such situations, the Lycian Council would normally call for a meeting to determine a successor. But with Marquess Ostia's untimely death earlier that year, the new marquess, busy stabilizing his own base of power, had not yet had the time to deal with the affairs of the rest of the land. Meanwhile, Lord Helman's poor loyal steward had attempted to keep the peace, until he had died in an suspicious accident soon after the annual harvest festivities.

In the absence of a proper ruler, chaos reigned.

Chancellor Reissmann spoke to Kent in private of his concerns. "Something must be done, Sir Kent. The timing seems entirely too convenient. With you just barely returned..."

"Yes," said Kent, grasping his meaning easily, but reluctant to theorize on who, if anyone, was behind the recent turn of events. "I know we are in no position to send them direct aid, but the latest reports have originated far too close to the border. Given our own current conditions, our villages will surely make tempting targets. The only issue is of how many men we should send. If we act too openly, Tania may accuse us of attempting a grab for power, or find some other excuse to engage us in war. Marquess Tania is a kind and just man, but I have heard also of his burning ambition. And though the new Marquess Ostia may be well-disposed towards us, I fear his hands are tied; if such a situation were to arise, I doubt he would be able to side openly with us without causing even more complications."

"You are perceptive as usual. A good deed was done, the day you were named Knight Commander."

A year ago, he might have blushed, or denied it vehemently, in light of his failures. But there was no time or place for guilt now, so he said instead, "I thank you for the compliment, Chancellor, and hope that I may someday prove worthy of it."

Reissmann smiled knowingly at him. "So modest." After a moment, he said, in what Kent found to be a strange turn, "I remember your mother well. Lady Cordelia -- she was a proud, stubborn woman. But very intelligent. A great pity it was, the rift between her and her father. I, at least, was pleased to hear that she remarried after that painter died, and that her new husband was Sir Bruce. A good man, Sir Bruce."

"Yes."

"You would do him proud, were he to see you now! How well you have stepped into his shoes. Nay, surpassed him."

"My father was a great knight," murmured Kent. "I dare not presume to such heights."

"Sir Bruce was one of the most loyal and upstanding men I ever knew. But you have grown to become a fine young man yourself, more than worthy of his legacy." Reissmann hesitated again. "Allow me to be frank, m'boy. What are your plans for the future?"

"The future?" he repeated, taken aback.

Reissmann shook his head. "You did not inherit much from your father, I know. You spoke earlier of Marquess Tania's burning ambition. But what about you? Have you no such ambitions for yourself?"

"I --"

"You were named to the highest military position in all of Caelin at so young an age. You have a bright future ahead of you. Have you given no thought to it at all?"

But of course he had. How could he have not? How many sleepless nights had he spent, dancing around the inevitable, formulating empty plans around questions that could not be answered?

But to Reissmann he said only, "When I became a knight, I swore an oath to serve my liege, our land, and our people, until the end of my life. I have no greater desires, no greater ambitions but my duty."

"I see," said Reissmann, and with that they moved back onto more urgent topics, the brief tangent all but forgotten.


End file.
